He could never be comfortable in a tidy garden. As a rule, he would only stop and lean his stick where it was already overgrown. If there was dirt sunk to the bottom of the bird bath or dead leaves dusted in with that narrow strip of grass down the driveway, straight as a woman’s bikini wax; if the flowerbeds were unmade and the trees leaning together to talk of old things.
Then, he might find a comfortable rock or bench beneath them and pass an hour or so watching the growing out, the scurrying feet, of wildness returning. He liked best those lonely gardens where no one sat anymore and insects poked their heads through wooden arm rests.
It reminded him of home.